Changing States
by Shimizu Hitomi
Summary: For the Holiday Microfic/Drabble Exchange on LiveJournal. 1. Jugdral/Air, "It's always darkest before dawn."; 2. Elibe/Magvel/Fire, "..."; 3. Elibe/Water, "And the stars just sit there and glimmer..."
1. Jugdral, Air: The Longest Winter

**DISCLAIMER: DON'T OWN IT YO**

For the Holiday Microfic/Drabble Exchange on LiveJournal. (Yes, I'm a bit behind schedule. :P) My prompt format originally asked for character/pairings and details as well, but I think I'll keep those as a surprise for any non-recipient readers. :P

**Recipient:** Sara Jaye  
**Universe:** Jugdral, during the Silesia arc  
**Quote**: "It's always darkest before dawn."  
**Element**: Air

**Notes: **I guess this makes it the first time I've completed and posted a Jugdral fic, even though it's my favorite FE universe and I have a few older WIPs!

* * *

**The Longest Winter**

It was kinda funny, how well they got along: the dancer and the priest. It wasn't that Lord Claude didn't see her as a woman, no, not at all. It was real sweet, actually, that such a serious man could have such a human side to him as well. Because he did find her attractive, Sylvia could tell. She had made a living out of making herself attractive to men, after all (though dancin' wasn't just about that, of course). Perhaps she couldn't read or write script like all the well-educated nobles in the army, but she could read gazes n' faces like the back of her hand, and divine meaning from that faint blush on his face -- more eloquent than the most finely crafted speech -- that betrayed his normally impervious composure (it wasn't from the cold, that was for sure!).

But even in his most awkward moments there was an elegance to his carriage, a solid weight to his presence that distinguished him from most of the other men she had ever known. Unlike the others, he did not try to define her in his own terms, whether as an easy lay, as enjoyable but ultimately forgettable company, or as an innocent in need of saving. He recognized that dancing was her greatest passion, her very life. And yet at the same time, that he saw her as more than just a dancer, more than just a woman, was flattering in another way altogether.

He was nothing at all like Levin, tied down to nothing and to no one. And his words, though carefully chosen, carried with them an air of unstudied sincerity.

She could trust in him not to lie to her.

"What's gonna happen now, Lord Claude?"

That beautiful pegasus knight, Fury's older sister, was dead. Almost as soon as they received the news, the mood of the entire camp had changed from cautious hope to something more akin to despair. It was no time for dancin', not now. Not anymore. And despite the confident, almost brash determination she had confronted Fury with just weeks earlier, there were some distances that could not be breached, griefs and regrets she could not share, words she could not offer in comfort to either Fury or Levin.

"What're we gonna do?" she said, and found herself struggling not to cry, whether from the realization that she had lost, fair and square, or because for the first time since she had joined Sigurd's army, she was beginning to think that they were all fighting a war that could not be won.

He drew her into his silent embrace instead of replying. After a while, he murmured, "When men first walked the land, they knew little about themselves and the world. And for some time they lived thus, blissful and content in their ignorance. But the seasons came and fled, and soon winter descended upon the land like a cloak of darkness. And then, for the first time they knew fear."

She wiped away the tears that had trickled down her face and tried to inject some humor into her voice. "Humankind's first winter, huh? However did we manage to survive?"

"The chiefs of every clan gathered, and came to a consensus: with the old Crone they must strike a deal, else all their people starve or freeze to death."

"And what'd she tell 'em?"

"When the old Crone beheld those men huddled naked at her feet, she took pity on them. 'Humans,' she whispered, her rattling voice low and chill as ice. 'I cannot clothe you, nor can I feed you. But this I tell you: entertain me, please me, and perhaps I shall spare you.' So what do you think the humans did?"

Sylvia shook her head, and his lips quirked into a hint of a smile. "They sang, and they danced. Before the old Crone they celebrated their lives through song and motion, and soon enough a fire lit within their hearts. And as long as just one single person continued to dance, the fire did not die, and Death came not for them, though the nights grew longer and darker and colder."

"They danced?"

He nodded. "Even the Crone's withered old heart began to melt at the sight. So touched was she, that she began to weep, and when all her tears had washed away, the people looked upon her and saw that her face had become that of a young maiden, and the warmth of the sun radiated from the very core of her being. At that they exclaimed in wonder and fear, but she only laughed and said, 'Now I am no longer the Cruel Mistress of Winter, but Lady of Light and Joy and all growing things.' Thus was winter driven away from the land."

She said quietly, "But this is different, isn't it? This time --" She could not bring herself to say it, even now. _Mahnya is dead._ It was not the first death of the war, nor would it be the last. She _knew_ this. But still she could not speak the words: _It's too late, Death has already taken her toll_.

Claude looked terribly sad. Sad, she thought, and weary, though he hadn't known Mahnya any better than she had. "Death is not the end," he said. "Just as spring comes unfailingly at winter's close."

Levin or Alec or any other man might have offered gentle, easy reassurances to her instead, and yet somehow she found more comfort in this simple cold truth than in the usual empty gestures and meaningless statements of faith and hope.

"Mm, I get it. So what you're saying is, all we can do in the meantime is -- dance?" She grinned, hoping to wipe away the strange regret in his eyes -- a regret that for once she could neither read nor understand. When he did not respond, she grabbed his hand on impulse, dragging him into a standing position.

She gave a little whirl. "Now, dancin' -- that I can do!"

At that Lord Claude chuckled, a sound that was low and surprisingly pleasant. "Yes," he said. "That's more like it. Despair does not become you..."

She laughed then as well, delighted as a child, her heart full and bursting with song. "Dance with me," she said.

And there it was, that blush again.

She didn't mind, of course. It was rather endearing, in fact.

And if he could not bring himself to dance -- why, she'd just do all his dancin' for him. For Lord Claude and for herself and for everyone who needed it: as they stood together now in the midst of bleakest winter, here on the brink of spring.

* * *

In the Japanese, Claude's compliment in their Chapter Four conversation makes her cry. Aww. :) I tried to capture a bit of that sweetness here, though some of my Claude characterization is also informed by his exchange with Aideen in Chapter Five (in which he makes it clear that he's known what's going to happen ever since Chapter Three. _Ouch_.)


	2. Elibe&Magvel, Fire: Thirst

**DISCLAIMER APPLIES**

**Recipient:** Samuraiter  
**Universe:** Elibe & Magvel  
**Quote**: "...."  
**Element**: Fire (Chinese)  
**WARNING for slight gore **(not really bad imo, but I have weird standards. :P)

**Notes: **This was an evil prompt because I normally don't do crossovers! (My brain tries too hard to make them make some sort of internal sense.) Not to mention, I suck at writing action... SO YEAH, it just turned out weird. :P

* * *

**Thirst**

From the time he first laid his eyes on the black lance, Valter was enthralled.

Duessel carried it everywhere with him, though he never used it, not even as a spare. When Valter pressed for more information, the old bastard refused to say a word.

Duessel's reticence only served to fuel his curiosity. Valter had always been one to covet that which he could not possess, and the desire grew within him like an unquenchable thirst. His eyes were drawn again and again to its gleaming dark length; his fingers itched to stroke the strange metal from which it had been wrought, smooth and cold as winter. He resented Duessel for not sharing its secrets with him. Duessel had no right; the lance belonged to him no more than the sky belonged to Valter. "The weapon chooses its wielder", it was said, but from the lance Valter could sense only aloof hostility and a thirst that matched his own.

Such a beautiful creature it was. So beautiful, its desire.

o-o-o

And yet that bloodstained day on the battlefield, the lance had been the furthest thing from his mind. His last javelin pinned some poor fool's neck to a mountain wall and snapped. His wyvern shrieked, struck by arrows. As it crashed to the ground, Valter leaped, rolling away to avoid being crushed beneath the creature's weight. He looked up to find that he had strayed too far from his own troops. All around him, enemy soldiers spotted him and rushed in for the kill. The shadow of death took hold of his heart. He panted, fumbling for a weapon, any weapon within his reach.

The moment his hands closed around cold metal, he knew. The lance had chosen. Power surged through him, wild and free, and he threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed. He did not know why he had been so afraid, just moments ago. There was nothing in the world to fear. He could hear screaming in the distance, but it meant little to him, when all his senses were drowned out by the wet, hot, dizzying scent of blood.

"Yes," he murmured, exulting in the wondrous keen intensity of life. "Yes!" he shouted to the world. "Come! Come to me, little lambs! Come to me, you trash! Now, there is no man in this world worthy of being my opponent!

A head went flying, a hand, a leg. Valter giggled, relishing the satisfying crunch-snap of glistening white bone, the squelching, pulsing sensation of still-warm flesh.

So absorbed was he in these sensations that he did not notice the swordsman until the crimson blade had nearly reached his throat. Valter leaped back, and the blade glanced off the surface of his lance, leaving a scratch.

The swordsman had long hair, smooth and black as the lance. He wore neither the colors of Grado nor the garb of any of their enemies. And his golden brown eyes were possessed of the same crazed lust Valter recognized in his own.

"Who are you?" Valter demanded. "How _dare_ you mar this beauty, this perfection?"

The stranger only smiled, a wicked curve of the lips, and a sudden maddening silence.

_My name is Karel_, whispered the wind, _and I come to meet your challenge._

Valter screamed as his ears fell away from his head in gushing torrents of blood. He thrust the lance forward, to the side. But it was no use. There was no escape. The feverish dark power had fled him. Even now, the lance was melting away in his hands, black liquid metal seeping into his very pores.

The last thing he heard was the sound of a scornful snort before his vision faded into a haze of smoke and heat.

o-o-o

He awoke to the taste of ashes.

"That lance was not meant for you," the old bastard said mournfully at his side.

It was gone. Gone!

Valter sat up and lunged at the deceiving old thief, but strong arms held him back.

"You _lie_," Valter snarled. "You lie you lie you lie! Give it back! It's mine! MINE!"

In the end it was no use. The wily old fox kept him confined and under close surveillance for a month, and even afterwards, did not let up his guard for even one moment.

But Valter soon found it mattered little. He no longer needed the lance. He had satisfied his curiosity, but not his thirst. His soul yearned for blood, for the screams and grunts like sweet music to his ears. He was powerful; he was invincible. The old fool, too, would soon learn to fear him.

No, he was beneath his contempt now. They were all beneath his contempt. For none now remained who were worthy of being his opponent, and he did not dream at night of the mad, intoxicating golden eyes of Death.


	3. Elibe, Water: Go Not Gently

**DISCLAIMER APPLIES**

**Recipient:** Manna/Kitten Kisses  
**Universe:** Elibe  
**Quote**: "And the stars just sit there and glimmer like they don't notice how we're dying inside, and the rain still pours and mocks us in our death, and the world goes on when all the hearts are broken."  
**Element**: Water (Chinese)

**Notes: **Loved all three prompts, but settled on this one because most of my ideas for the other two were going to be used in War is Kind anyway. This is in fact an alternate take on "A Thousand Snows" - basically a "what if" scenario, or how big a difference just one missing conversation might have made. Didn't actually use the quote directly though... it didn't turn out quite like I was planning and I'm not sure it will make much sense. D:

(I had actually finished this back in December but wasn't satisfied with it. Here is the semi-edited version, almost eight months late, but at least in time for your birthday? XD)

* * *

**Go Not Gently**

Not until a month after Fiora received the black letter did the cruel finality of loss strike her at last.

It arrived neither suddenly nor at once; rather, it was the slow unraveling of years and years of pain and grief she had kept carefully bundled away - all undone by a single word.

"Sorry," said Sain, and the most ridiculous thing about it was that he had nothing to be sorry for, absolutely nothing at all. In fact, he'd been apologizing for something silly - taking the last stick of fish, perhaps, or for accidentally brushing against her as he did so, she didn't know. Whatever it was, it unleashed the beginning of an ebb and flow of memories and dreams and regrets she had thought long forgotten. It was surprisingly gentle, more like a ripple in the stillness than like the torrent of messy emotions she had dreaded, but perhaps because of that it hurt all the more.

Even then she did not weep. As if watching herself from high above, from upon her pegasus's back, she saw the pieces of her life shift and settle into patterns both old and new, like a puzzle laid out in all its cold, clear logic.

It was while cleaning out her pack of essentials a few days later that she found an old Nabatan dagger among her belongings. She recognized it instantly as a memento of her childhood, a gift from a generous merchant in the year of the great famine. The blade had long since grown brittle with rust.

Iron and steel: impractical in the frozen wastelands of the north, but necessary nonetheless. And yet compared to her trusty hunting knife, carved from bone and antler, the dagger had been a useless trinket, valuable perhaps only to a collector. Even so, Fiora had kept it, cherished it through that long dark winter as a reminder - of what, she could no longer say - and ultimately forgotten about it.

She held it up now in the dimming light, as if waiting for something to happen. She could almost hear it: a distant echo of her sisters' bubbling laughter by the ashes of their empty hearth, penetrating through the deathly silence, chasing away both wind and hunger. In the end, she walked out the door and tossed the dagger into the darkness, as far as it would go.

Another week passed. She let Sain drag her to the local tavern for a round of drinking, and if he was surprised by her uncharacteristic rashness, he did not let her know. Afterwards, they stumbled out together and sprawled out on the riverbank. There they laid, silent but still warm from the ale.

"Florina," she declared, "could outdrink us all."

Sain laughed, as she had known he would. "Surely you jest! Sweet little Florina?"

"You should have seen her at the Festival of the Ice Dragon every year. She was like a different creature altogether, when she'd crawled out of her shell. You'd have barely recognized her."

"I can hardly imagine it! Why, that one festival we had in Caelin that year, she spent the entire time hiding behind Lady Lyndis!"

"It was all Farina's fault. Always teasing her so horribly. Tricking her into downing that mug of hard cider when she was just seven - Though maybe it was my fault too. For being so overprotective. I wouldn't let them attend the celebrations, not until they were old enough. But they snuck off anyway when I wasn't paying attention. It was always like that. I wonder when we started to..."

"Fiora."

What was it about this night, this still, moonlit night, that shattered her reticence, that stilled his tongue, swallowed his usual eloquence? She laughed, because that seemed like the right response to such absurdity, but halfway through it turned into a choked sob.

"It's not fair," she said. "It's so stupid. I've always known... life isn't fair. It's never been fair. Not for us."

"But," he said quietly, "that doesn't mean you have to accept it."

Strange how rationally, how coolly she could think of it all, even now that the dam had broken. Perhaps it was because it seemed like an old argument she and Farina had often had as children. _It doesn't have to be this way_, Farina would scream, and always Fiora would reply, _But it is._ "How can I rage against something I have no control over? People die every day, for reasons far more random and absurd. There is nothing absurd about illness."

"But it is absurd," he argued. "Tell me, Fiora, when you chose the path of the pegasus knight, did you imagine that you would succumb to disease? Or that you would fall on the battlefield?"

"It has nothing to do with choice. Actually, I think it was probably better this way. Florina - she was never suited for this path. Do you know what it's like, as a sister? Going to bed every night thinking that this may be your last, or their last. Always afraid. Knowing that the fate of women in war, on the battlefield or off, is never kind. I'm not like Farina. I don't delude myself - with the idea that men are useless, powerless, that... Do you even know what happens to most of the girls who depart on their training journeys? Everyone knows. But no one does a thing about it. Because that's just the way things are. You survive it, or you don't. You break, or you become stronger. Florina was lucky: she met Lady Lyndis. She fell in with - good people. Good men. She was always lucky, Florina. A blessed child..."

"But this was the path she chose. That you all chose."

"I wonder. Sometimes, I think it's the only choice we ever have..." She closed her eyes. "She had another choice, in the end, you know. And she chose to retire and marry."

"If you'd been in her place, what would you have chosen?"

This time, the words spilled before she could stop them. "Why did you come? Why would anyone choose to come to this damned place? You had a life in Caelin. Friends, comrades, a purpose. Why throw all that away?"

"Because," he said, "I love you."

He proceeded to ruin the effect by coughing and spluttering and mumbling something about... trees? But it didn't matter, because she was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her face, and despite the alcohol her mind felt surprisingly clear.

"I wouldn't have," she said through her tears, "couldn't have. Made the choice she did. She was the bravest of us all. She didn't deserve to -"

Sain said, "I know."

The stars reflected as distant, blurry points of light on the river's surface. She reached out for a pebble, tossed it at the reflection, watched as the ensuing ripples distorted the pattern before fading back into stillness.

Nothing had changed. Nothing remained the same.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

"I'll protect you. I swore I would."

"I'm scared that I'll - forget. I don't want it to have all been for nothing. Her life, mine, ours..." The Dread Isle flashed once more through her mind, the rain falling and falling, washing away all the blood and grime, a mockery of the sacrifices they had all made.

"You won't forget," he said.

"Will you come with me to Edessa?"

He bolted upright and clasped her hand, grinning like a fool. It should have surprised her, that he knew instantly what she meant and intended. But somehow, it did not.

"But of course! My beautiful goddess - oh, how long have I awaited for these words from your soft lips! Rest assured, I shall fight for you until the end of time! For justice - and for love!"

"Silly," she said, wondering if he knew how crazy, how _irrational_ it was to dream of changing the river's course in a single lifetime, and deciding that he probably didn't, and that even if he did he didn't care. So she said nothing more, and they stayed there, hand in hand, watching the river flowing ever on, until the first hint of dawn crept over the sky.

Something within her died again that night, she thought. But this time, in its place, fragile little seedlings took root.

For the first time in years, she dreamed of a time when she would no longer be afraid to grieve.


End file.
